


Take It Out On Me

by QuoteIntangible



Series: Dark!Ryan Series [2]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: And Ryan is...not a nice person, Child Abuse, Did I Mention How Dark This Is?, Domestic Violence, Don't Hate Me For Writing This, Drug Abuse, I'm Still in Denial That Spencer Left the Band, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse of a Minor, M/M, Not Everyone Gets a Happy Ending, So He Never Did in This Universe, Told From Ryan's POV, Very very dark, domestic abuse, this is a very dark fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuoteIntangible/pseuds/QuoteIntangible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m a monster,” Ryan realizes after he tells his psychiatrist what he did to Spencer, and then Brendon. She stares right through him, and doesn’t reply.</p><p>It stays with him, that label. Because everyone else thinks the same way, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take It Out On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of this true, it's all super made up, and I've never met any of these people, nor am I making any money from this. Title by Thousand Foot Krutch. 
> 
> My work tends to be very dark, so this isn't the darkest thing I've ever written, but it is definitely one of the darkest things I've ever written. I got a little creative with the narrative again. It's something I used to do all the time when I first started writing fiction, but I've tried to get away from it. I never intended to write this story, though, let alone post it. But before I knew it, I had the entire thing written down in my notebook, and then decided just to type it up, and I don't feel like spending the time rewriting certain parts. For what this story is, I think it's fine the way it is. There is one fairly graphic rape scene, but if you want to read the rest and just skip over that part, there's plenty of warning prior to it, and just skip to the part where it says: He wakes up lying on the floor...
> 
> For those of you wondering, I have been working on the sequel to Trading Mistakes. Right now I have a bunch of pieces of the story written that I'm still trying to figure out how to fit together.

Ryan doesn’t understand sex.

It's something one of his father’s weekly poker buddies forces on him week after week after all the other men have left and his father drunkenly passes out on the kitchen table, or on the couch, or, very rarely, in his own bed. It hurts, what the man makes him do, and no matter how many times he says no, or how many times he begs him to stop, the man never does. 

Sex is one-sided, he decides, meant only for the pleasure of the man on top.

Then he gets older, and the man doesn’t stop coming, and it maybe starts to feel good sometimes when the man sticks his dick in Ryan's ass.

Orgasms become his new favorite thing, and even when the man isn’t there, he finds himself masturbating all the time.

It confuses him.

He asks his father about it, about sex, and the man, and the things he does. That ends with Ryan getting beaten until he passes out, his father calling him sick and a freak. And he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t.

So he tries to figure it out by himself. Some of the movies he's seen and books he's read say sex is about love, while others say it is about power and force.

He wants to believe it is about love, but does the man that sneaks into his room every week love him? He loved Ryan’s mouth, and his ass, loved the things Ryan did for him, or at the very least that's what the guy tells him.

“But do you love me?” he asked one night, after the man finished, tied up the condom, put it in his pocket, and hastily dressed.

“No,” the guy said, lit cigarette hanging from his mouth as he shoved his feet into his worn combat boots. “You’re just a warm, wet hole, kid.”

“Oh,” he said, not upset, just trying to understand.

Sex _isn’t_ about love then.

Still, he isn’t entirely able to let go of the notion, because buried under the layers of sarcasm, dead eyes and a wall of ice so thick and cold it could’ve stopped global warming, he loves Spencer. He loves his blue eyes, and his smile, so rarely given, that stretches across his whole face. And Ryan loves his sense of humor, and the way he takes care of Ryan, and the way he loves Ryan back like no one else ever has in his life.

Spencer makes his dick hard, arouses him not just because of any physical attraction or physical stimulation, but because of who he is as a person and what he means to Ryan.

He looks at Spencer and can’t help, but wonder, what sex with him would be like. Would it be like what it was with the man who used to come into his room every week before Ryan stopped being an idiot and learned not to spend those nights at home, or would it be some entirely new emotion just out of reach of Ryan's grasp?

Would it feel like love? Taste like love? Smell like love?

He kisses Spencer like the man showed him how, forceful and determined, teeth gnashed together and biting. Spencer accepts the kiss, doesn’t pull away, grasps onto Ryan’s shirt, and pulls him closer.

They both shed their clothes quickly. He pushes Spencer down onto his bed, flips him so he is on his stomach, Ryan hovering over him. They don’t have lube, and they don’t have condoms, just a little bit of lotion and some spit. It could’ve been worse.

Ryan has taken worse.

“Just, just go slow,” Spencer says, head pillowed on his arms, teeth gnawing at his lips.

Ryan's nervous too.

At first, he goes slow like Spencer asks, eases in nice and easy, stilling his hips for a second once he is all the way in. But he doesn't wait for approval from Spencer before he starts pulling out and thrusting back in. It never even occurs to Ryan to ask if Spencer is ready for him to start thrusting. The man never asked Ryan.

He tries to emulate what was done to him all those times. It's maybe not the best idea considering how often Ryan enjoyed it, but it's the only real world example he has to go guide him through this.

The man always pinned his arms down, even when Ryan didn’t struggle, which wasn't very often. The man was rough and fast and his hips always slapped loudly against Ryan’s skin.

He doesn’t remember the next few minutes of sex with Spence. It's like he blacked out, but his body kept moving.

He comes to as Spencer is saying, “Ryan, stop, please.”

Ryan’s said those words before, countless times, week after week. The guy never stopped when he asked. So Ryan doesn’t either. He’s pretty sure that’s the way it's supposed to be.

Right?

“Ryan, I’m serious, stop. You’re hurting me,” he hears Spencer say, and maybe he should listen to him, maybe he should stop.

But he’s so close, and no one ever stops when he asks. It’s just three more thrusts, skin slapping again skin, and he’s coming into Spencer’s ass.

He didn’t think to ask about that either.

Spencer’s face is buried into his arms, shoulders shaking slightly.

“Spencer?” he questions, lightly touching his shoulder.

Spencer tenses underneath his touch and says, “Get out.”

“I don’t -”

“I said get out!”

He doesn’t understand what went wrong.

It must be his assumptions. Sex isn’t about love, after all.

Instead, it took Spencer’s love away.  

Spencer won’t talk to him, won’t answer his calls, won’t sit with him at lunch, won’t take the bus home from school with him, and cancels all band practices.

He forces the issues, goes to Spencer’s mom. It doesn’t make him feel bad manipulating his best friend like that.

She makes them sit down together and ‘talk.’ She thinks she’s doing what’s best. Inadvertently, she ruins three lives by making them reconcile.

“Are you even sorry?” Spencer asks, and Ryan is honestly confused.

“For what?” he asks. He hasn’t done anything wrong.

Spencer goes to leave, but Ryan grabs him, desperate to make him stay. “Please, I don’t understand what I did wrong. Please, please just tell me. Don’t leave me.”

“I asked you to stop, and you didn’t. You hurt me, Ryan.”

“Okay,” he says, because Spencer still isn’t speaking in terms he understands. “Well maybe we can try again?”

“No,” Spencer says, ripping his shirt from Ryan’s grip.

“We can still be friends, right?” he says, reaching for Spencer again, desperate to hold onto _something._

“I don’t know,” Spencer says, shakes his head and pulls his shirt from Ryan’s grasp again, taking a step back so he’s out of reach.

“But what about the band? Brent found a replacement for Trevor, and he’s coming over tomorrow, and please Spencer, whatever it was, I didn’t mean it. Please, just let us have practice tomorrow at your grandmother’s place.” One more chance, just  _once more chance,_ is all he needs to prove to Spencer that he loves him, that he needs him, that they can still be together. 

Spencer hesitantly agrees to one more practice, but only because he wants the chance to explain things to Brent.

And that’s how they meet Brendon.  

The love returns to Spencer’s eyes in that practice, and Ryan sees him smile for the first time since before they had sex.

But it’s not Ryan he’s smiling at.

It’s Brendon and his goofy smiles, and his surprisingly good Gollum impression, and his enthusiasm and cheesiness and naiveté and his filter of the world that sees sunshine and rainbows and kittens instead of darkness and death and destruction.

He hates Brendon, more than he’s ever hated his father or the man that came into his room week after week.  

Spencer agrees to stick with the band for just a little while longer to stay close to Brendon. Ryan has no choice, but to let Brendon join, to be around him week after week so that he can still have Spencer.

He loves the music, loves the sound of Brendon’s voice, but dreads being in the presence of the tiny body that voice belongs to more than he ever dreaded the visits from his father’s poker buddy in the dead of night.

But Brendon brings the life back to Spencer, and the more they spend time around each other at practice, the more Spencer’s icy exterior towards Ryan melts.

They actually start talking, about their favorite songs, about their classes and homework and Ms. Wilson’s, the French teacher from Canada’s, smelly armpit hair that she likes to show off during class, and about Mr. Cope's nonsensical grading system in English class, and Fall Out Boy’s new CD. He still doesn’t sit with Ryan during lunch, though, and he doesn’t let Ryan spend the night.

But it’s something, and Ryan will take it. He can work with _something_. 

“I forgive you,” Spencer says the day Pete fucking Wentz signs them. “I forgive you. And I think one day we could be friends again,” he says, lighting the dusty unused candle labeled ‘Hope’ in his chest. “But, we’ll never be anything more ever again,” he says, snuffing out the candle in the same breath.

Ryan can work with that. He’ll change Spencer’s opinion. They’ll have more. He knows it. He can get his second chance.

But no matter how many times he picks up Spencer’s favorite coffee for him, or takes him shoe shopping, or writes sappy love poems for him, Spencer never looks at him again the way he now looks at Brendon.

It's all Brendon's fault. 

“Stay away from Brendon,” Spencer says on their second tour while wringing his hands, eyes downcast. He’s not demanding, or threatening. He’s begging Ryan, “Please.”

He pays closer attention to Brendon after that, notices the way their lead singer looks at him, the way he attempts to kiss Ryan on stage, even though it’s scripted for Ryan to pull away just before, and the way he’s always in Ryan's space. He suddenly sees the way, even though they bicker constantly about the music until one of them gets pissed and walks out, Brendon always hangs on his every word and literally hangs on him like a leech.

Brendon’s _interested_ in _Ryan,_ maybe even loves him.

And that’s, that’s, well, interesting.

Ryan doesn’t do anything about it at first after his little revelation, because Spencer asked him not to, and he still wants only Spencer.

But Brendon kisses him first, backs him into a wall, presses his lips against Ryan’s, thrusts his tongue into his mouth.

He thinks Spencer’s pleas don’t apply anymore.

He flips their positions, sheds them both of their jeans. He doesn’t bother too much with prepping him, thinks it’s a waste of time, before he’s thrusting in, a strangled sound of distress catching in the back of Brendon’s throat.

The sex isn't love, but this time he understands what it is. It’s jealousy, because Brendon has taken the one thing Ryan wants more than anything else – Spencer’s love – and he doesn’t even know it.

It’s the perfect opportunity.

He takes him hard, and fast, fucking him rough even after Brendon gets himself off and starts making those distressed noises again, little whines and moans of pain.

It was Brendon’s first time, he later finds out, and because of the way Ryan treated him, Brendon thinks it’s always supposed to hurt, that sex is always filled with burning and pain and blood.

Ryan doesn’t see what the big deal is, when he’s told this. His first time was like that too.

Brendon is the one that keeps coming back, though, Ryan never goes to him. He even maintains a steady line of girlfriends and girls he fucks, despite fucking Brendon on a regular basis. Brendon _knows_ this and he keeps coming back, saying things like _it’s okay,_ and _I forgive you,_ and _I’m going to fix you._

Ryan doesn’t need fixing. He’s not broken.

No matter how much Ryan pushes, or how violent he gets, Brendon never says no and never stops coming back.

Ryan loves the attention, loves the way it hurts everyone involved, especially Spencer who loves Brendon more than he loves him. Except Spencer doesn't know, not yet at least, all the ways Ryan is hurting him. 

Life goes on as usual. No one knows about him and Brendon and he wants Spencer to know, but he lets Brendon have this.

Until one day, Brendon tells him no.

And Ryan loses it.

And maybe he pushes too far, but maybe not far enough to make Brendon stop coming back.

The punch catches them both off-guard, hitting Brendon squarely where the bottle knocked him out just hours before.

It’s a low blow.

But it feels good.

Brendon puts up little resistance after that, and lets Ryan fuck his mouth, choking every time Ryan hits the back of his throat on purpose.

Brendon doesn’t tell him no again. He’s _broken,_ he thinks. I _broke_ _him_.

Ryan likes it that way.

Brendon changes in little ways after that, withdrawing from the people around him, remaining mostly silent in interviews unless asked a direct question to avoid drawing Ryan’s ire. Spencer starts to wonder, but he doesn’t _know._ Brendon is a good little secret keeper and doesn’t tell anyone. Ryan hits him harder, makes more bruises, makes Brendon bleed because he wants Spencer to know.  

Brendon just gets better at hiding the bruises.

Even if Spencer doesn't know, it has its advantages. Ryan gets his way with the second CD, cutting Brendon out of the process as much as he dares, because Brendon is too afraid to tell him no. 

It's empowering. 

It’s a year and a half before anyone catches on, and finally Spencer notices. “I’m serious, Ryan. Stay away from him,” Spencer says. He’s still not demanding or threatening, but there’s still something like resignation in his tone.

Ryan doesn’t know what that means.

“Brendon’s the one that keeps coming back,” he says with a smirk. “He must like something he’s getting.”

It’s not his fault _if_ Brendon keeps coming back.

It’s not.

Spencer looks worn down and weary, like the weight of a 1,000 years is bearing down on his shoulders. “Then tell him no. Break his heart. I don’t care. Stop him from coming back. I won’t let you…just don’t.”

 _Why should I?_ is on the tip of his tongue, but a much more wonderful idea comes to him. This is his chance to get what he really wants.

This is how he wins Spencer back.

“I will leave Brendon alone, I’ll tell him no, if I can have you,” Ryan says, fisting the lapel of Spencer’s hoodie with one hand and rubbing the index finger of his free hand across Spencer’s chest.  

Spencer looks away, stuffing his shaking hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He jerkily nods his head yes, but the action looks forced, like he really doesn’t want to agree.

He’s gentle with Spencer in a way he’s never been with Brendon or any of his other sex partners. He won’t make the same mistake twice. He takes his time prepping Spencer, even though he still thinks prepping is kind of a waste of time, he eases in gently, actually tries to find Spencer’s prostrate, something he’s never done before, to make Spencer enjoy it, to make him see how much Ryan loves him.

Spencer comes with his eyes screwed shut, his face turned away from Ryan and something like a pained moan pushing past his lips.

“See how good that was,” he says with a smirk, trying to attach himself to Spencer who’s hastily throwing his clothes back on, and buttoning up his shirt wrong. Ryan tries to fix it for him, but his hands get swatted away. “We could be so good together, you and I. We could get back together. I still love you.”

Spencer stares him dead in the eye, fully dressed, buttons one off from being right and hands still shaking. “I stopped loving you a long time ago,” he says and leaves.

He doesn’t come back.

But Brendon does.

And Ryan doesn’t tell him no, like he told Spencer he would.

Instead he takes his anger at Spencer out on Brendon, on the boy who keeps coming back, despite the bruises Ryan leaves on his skin, and the scars he viciously tears across his insides.

There’s a ring of bruises around his neck already, handprints up and down his arms and on his hips, and he thinks Brendon might have bled when he took him last night, there was blood spotted on the sheets in the morning.

Why does Spencer love this damaged _thing_ , and not him?

His anger rises like a tidal wave, drowning out everything else.

Body still moving, his mind goes someplace else again. He doesn’t know where.

When he comes to, there are fresh welts across Brendon’s back, and he’s holding Brendon face down into the floor, the other hand still poised to strike, belt in hand.

He lets the lash fall with a snap of leather across already bruised shoulders. Ryan slides from his back, and Brendon tries to rise.

He doesn’t get past his knees.

“Suck it,” Ryan demands, an echo of a voice heard too many times long ago.

"No," Brendon says, and Ryan doesn't understand yet again. He never got to say no. Why should Brendon?

The rage whitewashes his vision.

He’s not sure what he would have done, had Spencer not barged into the room in that exact moment, the second he’s got both hands gripping Brendon’s face, thumbs jammed into his jaw joint so he can’t close his mouth.

Spencer’s calm, too calm, when he tells Ryan to back off, and wraps an arm around Brendon’s waist, hauling him to his feet when Ryan lets go.  

“No more,” he says to both of them. “No more, or it’s over,” he says to Ryan.

 He’s not sure what Spencer means, if he’s talking about their friendship or the band or something else.

“I’ll leave him alone, if I can have you,” Ryan says again, taking a step forward.

Spencer matches his step back, taking Brendon with him and not releasing the arm he has wrapped around Brendon’s waist. Spencer doesn’t hit him, but it’s a close thing.

Spencer takes Brendon with him, and this time, neither come back.

He’s headed towards the stage the next night, looking for Brendon for a quick fuck – despite what Spencer says, Brendon will never leave him – when he hears Spencer and Zack talking about him like he’s some sort of criminal.

“I know you have these things like all planned out ahead of time,” Spencer tells Zack, his voice breaking, “but Brendon can’t room with Ryan anymore.”

“Good,” is Zack’s gruff answer, but he looks worried as he takes in Spencer's appearance. “I’ll work something out.” Spencer tries to flee, but Zack grabs his elbow and holds on gently. “Can _you_ share a room with him?” he asks, and Ryan knows he’s asking about more than just rooming arrangements.

“No,” Spencer chokes out and, to both Zack and his surprise, starts crying. Zack leads him away to a more private corner, holds Spencer’s shoulder tightly, shields him from the rest of the crew and the other bands, and lets him cry. Ryan doesn’t hear any more than that.

He’s not sad, he’s not upset. He’s just mad. Brendon isn’t worth _this_. Spencer should love him instead.

But the tour ends, and Ryan goes home alone. Life goes on as usual. 

Until Brendon, in some sort of weird chivalrous display, shows up on his doorstep like some kind of martyr. He's hasn't slept with Brendon in months. Spencer and Zack have made sure of that, but here he is at Ryan's mercy, the one who ruined everything for him. 

“Spencer thinks this is a waste of time,” Brendon says, nervous, bouncing on the balls of his feet and refusing to meet Ryan’s eyes.  “But I think it’s worth a try.”

He has no fucking clue what Brendon is talking about. It’s annoying and grating, and he doesn’t miss Brendon, but he misses getting laid regularly and he could really use a good fuck right now. “Unless you’re here to fuck, get out,” he says wrenching his front door open.  

“No, no,” Brendon says, and Ryan rolls his eyes. “I’m here because I care about you. You’re sick, Ryan. You need help. Please…”

He doesn’t hear the rest.

“You’re sick,” he remembered his father telling him when he mustered up enough courage to ask him about what his poker buddy did after his father drunkenly passed out. “You little disgusting freak,” his father said, dragging him to his room by a tight grip on his bicep. He remembered the feel of his father’s belt hitting his skin over and over and over again. “I bet you liked it, you sick fuck.”

His father kept hitting until he passed out.

When he woke up, Ryan was naked on his bed, his father’s poker buddy sitting on his chest, knees pinning his arms to the bed, and his dick in Ryan’s face. “You were a bad boy,” the man said. “Suck it.”

He shakes his head to clear it, feels the cool leather of his own belt in his hands, looks down to see Brendon on his knees with fresh bruises decorating his previously unmarked skin, and tears marring his face. This, too, feels familiar.

“Suck it,” he hears his own voice echo.

“No. I don’t want to,” Brendon says, the exact same words he said all those nights. “I didn’t come here for this. Ryan, listen to me, please…”

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” the man said, his alcohol laden breath assaulting his nose. Fingers pinched his nose shut, until he was forced to open his mouth. With his hands and legs pinned to the bed, there was nothing Ryan could do to stop him.

He drops the belt, grabs Brendon by the wrist and drags him towards his bed. Brendon, for once, resists, attempts to tug his wrist free, digs his shoes into the carpet.

“Don’t,” Brendon pleads, using his whole body to try and free the hold on his arm. “Ryan, please.”

Ryan turns to see down cast eyes, tears leaking from the corners.

“Only pussies cry,” the man said, when Ryan started crying. “Are you a pussy? Does your pussy like my dick?” he mocked, flipping Ryan over onto his stomach.

White, hot rage ignites in his chest, setting fire to his senses and fueling his onslaught. “No.”

He tightens his grip on Brendon’s arm, pulls so hard he hears the bone beneath his fingers crack. Brendon gasps and stumbles, faltering enough for Ryan to get control over him. He pushes him hard enough that he falls, knees hitting the edge of Ryan's bed, before his momentum carries him forward onto the bed, bent over the top of it.

The perfect position for Ryan.

Brendon struggles to stand, but Ryan easily pins him down, drapes his weight over Brendon’s back, and holds both tiny wrists tightly in his left hand. He uses his free hand to unbutton Brendon’s jeans and push them down to his thighs.

“Please don’t,” Brendon pleads, struggling to throw Ryan off of him. Ryan squeezes the broken arm hard enough that Brendon stills beneath him, biting clean through his lip until it starts to bleed. He stops trying to buck Ryan off, stops fighting, just like Ryan did all those nights.

His anger rises like fog over a lake.

He spits into his free hand, slicks himself up, and forces himself inside of Brendon.

Brendon’s whole body goes taut, wrists jerking in Ryan’s tight hold. He clamps down hard on Ryan’s dick, and he should pull out while he still can, or at the very least, wait until Brendon relaxes into the intrusion. Instead, he forces himself past the tight ring of muscles until he’s fully seated.

Brendon bites off a gasp, his shoulders starting to shake as he begs Ryan to stop. He turns to bury his face into the blankets, muffling his sobs when Ryan doesn’t.

“Only pussies cry,” Ryan echoes, pulling out and slamming back in, forcing another broken gasp from Brendon’s cracked lips. He pulls Brendon’s hips back until there’s no space between them, and kisses Brendon’s neck, thrusting into the tight, hot heat of his body.

He’s hard, but he’s not turned on.

He keeps trying anyways, thrusting over and over into the resisting body beneath him. He knows the moment he tears Brendon apart, feels the blood ease the friction, sees it cover his dick and run down Brendon’s thighs.

“Please stop,” Brendon begs again, words Ryan’s said countless times to the man who came into his room week after week.

He responds with a snap of his hips, drawing more blood, digging deeper wounds.

It goes on.

  And on.

    And on.

An hour? Two hours? Of thrusting over and over as hard as his hips and thighs can manage, yelling at Brendon to stop fucking crying.

There’s no thrum of arousal singing in his veins, no buildup of pleasure in his groin. But he has to get there if he just keeps trying, right? There has to be a point to all of this.

There’s so much blood. He’s never seen this much before, not even on the nights the man made him bleed. He needs to stop, but he just can’t.

Not until he gets there, gets _somewhere_.

He shortens his thrusts, keeps them sharp, a brief hard snap of his hips over and over, until finally he feels the pressure mount, his hips speeding up, pounding into the body below him.

His release is sudden and unsatisfactory. Brendon cries out, sobbing as Ryan tugs himself free. He wipes his bloody dick on Brendon’s jeans, then passes out, still draped over Brendon’s back.

He wakes lying on the floor in a sticky, dried puddle of blood.

He showers, scrubbing the blood off his dick and thighs and hands, brushes his teeth, makes his morning coffee, sits to eat his daily dose of oatmeal, then grabs his phone that won’t stop buzzing.

He opens the message from Spencer first. _It’s over,_ is all the text says.

Their friendship? The band? He thinks Spencer means all of it.

It’s not unexpected, but still a surprise. It hurts.

So he ignores it, pretends Spencer still loves him instead.  

 _Spin took B to the hospital,_ Jon texts. _What the fuck did you do?_

 _Nothing,_ he texts back, fingers jabbing at the buttons a little too hard. _I did nothing wrong._

The doorbell rings.

Zack is waiting on his doorstep for him, shoulders near his ears, hands balled into fists. He punches Ryan as hard as he can in the face. “If you ever come near either of them again, I will snap your scrawny little neck,” he says. “I have connections. I can and will make you disappear permanently.” 

Ryan doesn’t think he deserved that.

He doesn’t ask how Brendon is. He’s been through this before.

He calls Pete, who tells him he’s lucky Brendon doesn’t press charges, and not to call him ever again. Patrick won’t even answer his calls, neither will most of his other friends and acquaintances at FBR.

It’s finally starting to settle in.

Ryan’s all alone now.

He doesn’t think that’s fair either.

But life goes on as usual.

Until he wakes up on the bathroom floor in a house he does not recognize, his hard dick still buried in some stranger’s ass.  He doesn’t remember the past week. There’s coke and marijuana and shrums and alcohol and more coke, and a hazy recollection, snapshots really, of random moments, but no actual memories. He pulls his dick out and runs before the guy he’s in can wake up.

Ryan gets help after that, sees a shrink. Court mandated, of course, after he got caught with coke in his pocket while driving. .

There’s a name for what happened to him, he finds.

It’s the same name for what he did to Spencer and Brendon.

The therapist says what happened to him as a kid isn’t his fault.

But what he did to Spencer and then Brendon, that is his fault.

An ache settles in his gut, and not even drugs can make it go away. So he ignores it, tells himself what happened to Brendon was really Brendon's fault. Ryan went through the same thing, and he never complained about it as much as they did.

He wants to talk to Spencer, though, to understand, but he still won’t take Ryan's calls, neither will anyone whose still close to them.

That includes Pete.

He thought Pete was _his_ friend.

He stops going to therapy, returns to the warm embrace of coke and more coke.

Until Jon comes storming back into his life, insisting it’s about the music, about The Young Veins, and not about Ryan.

“We’re not friends,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

Ryan doesn’t really understand why he came back, and he doesn’t think Jon knows either. Maybe he can’t face Brendon and Spencer, maybe he knew and just didn’t say. Either way, Ryan’s not surprised he came back. One day, Spencer will too.  

And for a little bit, it gets better. For a little bit, he has something more than coke to look forward to.

They make a CD, they get signed, they go on tour, but they don’t talk about what he did, until Ryan gets drunk, says it wasn’t his fault what happened, that Spencer forgave him, Brendon’s just a pussy.

Apparently Jon didn't know everything that Ryan had done. 

He does now. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jon says to his face after that. “Did you even…?” he stops, shakes his head. “Of course you didn’t.”

Jon leaves and doesn’t come back this time.

He doesn’t know how long the bender that follows lasts.

A week? Two weeks? A month?

There is a lot of coke, and a lot of other drugs he doesn’t have names for. There’s a lot of sex, too.

He can’t remember if any of it is consensual.

He wakes up in an alley this time, still thrusting into what he thinks is a prostitute. It’s the fact that he’s not wearing a condom that freaks him out the most about the whole situation.

Ryan gets more help, this time it's not mandated by a court. This time it sticks after more than a year of therapy. This time it really settles in what happened to him (he didn’t have a choice) and what he did to Spencer and Brendon (they didn’t have a choice either).

“I’m a monster,” he realizes after he tells his psychiatrist what he did to Spencer. She stares right through him, and doesn’t reply.

It stays with him, that label. Because everyone else thinks the same way, too.

He calls Spencer again.  He’s better now. Someone must forgive him. The number is no longer in service. Pete doesn’t answer. Neither does Patrick, or Joe, or Andy. He calls Greta, Bob, Cash, Zack, William, and fuck, even some old roadies and his ex-girlfriends, everyone he’s ever toured with or been friends with whose number he still has and who might have Spencer’s new number.

No one answers.

Not even Jon.

Except Gabe, who threatens to murder him, dismember his body piece by piece while he’s still alive, starting with his dick if he even thinks of going near Brendon again.

He can’t forgive himself.

They can’t either.

But life must go on. 

Two years later, an obsessed Ryden fan sends him a Youtube link on twitter with the caption, _Beebo admits relationship with Ryry._

He watches the video.

He doesn’t know why.

It’s a clip from one of Brendon’s periscopes. Brendon's reading the fan comments and questions out loud, not really paying attention to what he’s reading when he says, “When you were in the hospital with the broken wrist, was it Ryan that hurt you…” he trails off as he realizes what he just said, and looks away from the screen. He chews on his lip, hesitating, Spencer’s indistinct, but painfully recognizable, chatter filling the silence in the background.

Then Brendon turns back to the screen, says, “Yeah, he did,” and gets up and walks away.

Brendon comes back on screen a minute or two later with one of his dogs in his arms, eyes red and a little wet. He’s shaking, but he hides it by petting his dog’s fur. Brendon adjusts his glasses, before leaning back in to read the comments on the screen, face so close, Ryan can see how pale he is.

Brendon doesn’t bring the topic back up again, completely ignores it and any of the fan's questions about it, until some fan asks why Ryan hurt him.

The shaking is more noticeable, as he presses a kiss to the top of his dog’s head and pushes his glasses up his nose again. “I don’t know,” he answers, and the video ends.

It’s all over the news the next day. Well, kind of. Panic’s not that big of a deal, so it doesn’t hit major new stands, so to speak. Alt Press does an article on it, though, and a few other online music news websites pick up on the news, with headlines like ‘Panic! Frontman, Brendon Urie, Admits Former Guitarist Hospitalized Him.’

The backlash is instantaneous.

Ryan feels sick to his stomach. He avoids the internet, especially social media, for months and never reads the comments.

He’s sure they’re as nasty as he feels inside.

It’s only a matter of time before someone interviewing Brendon and Spencer on their new CD, _Too Weird to Live, Too Rare to Die,_ picks up on the news and dares to ask either one of them about it.

Ryan finds out about it because one of his few remaining fans, yet again, sends him the Youtube link on twitter with the caption, _Beebo talks smack about Ryan,_ and like an idiot he watches it.

At the 3:24 mark of the 4:54 minute video, the interviewer asks, “So, Brendon, in one of your recent periscopes, you admitted that your former guitarist, Ryan Ross, put you in the hospital.”

He sees both Brendon and Spencer tense, Spencer sneaking his arm behind Brendon to place a hand on the small of his back, at least, Ryan guesses that’s what he’s doing. “Were you two in a relationship at the time?”

Brendon looks dead into the camera and says, “No. No, Ryan and I were never in a relationship.”

It’s the truth.

Brendon believes it now, and Ryan’s always known it to be true. What they had wasn’t a relationship. It was revenge, jealousy, Ryan using and abusing a willing body.

It was just sex, and sex isn’t love.

And Brendon finally sees that.

Ryan’s always known, but for some reason, it still hurts.

“You and Spencer,” she says, thankfully changing the subject. She senses blood in the water, but she’s too nice to attack. Spencer relaxes his shoulders, but the bitch face remains firmly in place. “How are things going with your relationship?”

It’s a kick to the groin. He didn’t even know they were dating.

They both smile, real and genuine, at each other, unable to contain their love for one another. The interviewer smiles along with them, delighted at the adorable display.

Ryan remembers when both of them used to look at him like that.

“We’re getting married,” Spencer finally says, lacing his finger’s with Brendon’s. Brendon pulls a chain from around his neck, revealing an engagement ring, still smiling at Spencer like he hung the moon.

Ryan can’t hold back. This time he empties everything held back inside of him into the toilet.

It’s six years before he sees them again in person. He’s rebuilt his life from beneath the ground, from the Hell he buried himself in. He has friends again, ones who don’t know why everyone in his life alienated him six years ago.

He gets an invitation to the same Halloween party as Spencer and Brendon. He thinks they’re married now.

Ryan wasn’t invited to the wedding.

Spencer heads him off before he can approach, corners him in a bathroom.

“Stay away from Brendon,” he threatens, arms crossed, no hint of warmth in his once welcoming eyes.

“I just, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I…” he falls silent. He can’t even say it.

But Spencer can. Spencer scoffs, says, “What? That you took mine and Brendon’s virginity like that? That you beat and raped Brendon so badly that I had to take him to the hospital?”

“I’m better now. I got help,” he reaches for Spencer, who jerks himself out of Ryan’s reach. “I’m sorry.”

“Even if that meant something, I can’t forgive you,” he says, shaking his head and skirting around Ryan so they don’t touch as he walks away.

“I want to say sorry to Brendon.”

“No,” Spencer says, twisting around to face him. “We’re happy now. Just leave us alone.”

And then he’s gone. And Ryan thinks this might be for forever.

Spencer keeps himself and Brendon far away, with Zack or some other person intercepting every time it looks like Ryan might head over to where the two of them stay huddled close together. He doesn’t catch much more than a glimpse of them for the rest of the night.

They eventually leave the party, and that’s that.

An entire lifetime of friendship reduced to ashes and faint glimpses from a distance.

Ryan never did get second chances.

But…

Life goes on as usual. 

 

 


End file.
